


Class Reunion Night

by freshbakedlady



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Everybody Lives, First Meetings, M/M, Post-World War II, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbakedlady/pseuds/freshbakedlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam isn't much in the mood tonight to meet any more of the military extended family, even when it's Trip's cousin bringing them in. As it turns out, the military never really got its mitts on Steve Rogers. Sam might like to, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Class Reunion Night

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt](http://joycesully.tumblr.com/post/114781747014/for-the-prompt-sam-pre-serum-steve-au-shall-i): Sam/pre-serum Steve AU. Permission granted to run amok.
> 
> Left to my own devices, I decided to save everyone. (Well, nearly--Riley got left dead. Sorry about that, Sam.)

Sam raised his drink in greeting when Trip made introductions over the scrape of tables being pushed together. Sam knew Trip’s cousin, Gabe, and some of the team he dragged after him sometimes. The new ones were a couple of white boys. Gabe had served with them under Isaiah Bradley, the one they all still called Captain America and owner of the Faithful Shield bar. Sam didn’t know them, but they probably had their faces up on the walls of the bar as well, in one of the hundred pictures arranged from bar top to ceiling.

Half the bar had been taken over by the reunion by then. You couldn’t hardly walk across the room for bodies, though Dugan, big paws full of a half dozen mugs, bowled through all the same. Not just any place would tolerate the lot of them together, a mix of races and half of them queer to boot. Hell, most of the bars that catered to the boys who came home wouldn’t have let them all in. They looked like a bar fight waiting to happen, jarheads, dog faces, and zoomies all together. Bradley called them family, though, and nobody said boo to him about it.

Sam and Riley could have gotten drinks together there and not heard a word against it. Riley’d gotten his ass shot down over the Pacific while Sam flew on the other side of the planet, though. So Sam sipped his whiskey in the corner, waved off all offers for anything else, and regretted going out that night.

One of the new guys, Barnes, had lost an arm somewhere along the way, but the pinned-up sleeve of his coat didn’t seem to cramp his style. Barnes twirled Peggy around the tiny dance floor, while Gabe tried to keep pace with Angie, Peggy’s best girl. The women danced with each other as much as with the men holding them, trading laughter and looks in relative safety.

Sam had just started to contemplate leaving before the drink made him any more maudlin. Then he spotted the other new guy at the far end of the bar, hunched over something and by himself. Looking at the skinny bow of his back, Sam thought maybe his picture wouldn’t be up after all. Probably the Army never saw fit to use someone who looked like that. A pity, because Sam wouldn’t have minded getting to look at that on the front every once in a while. He was all fine lines and sharp bones.

Maybe it was just that misery loved company, but Sam found himself weaving through the crowd to take the spot next to him.

When Sam said hello, the guy startled and curled an arm around what he had in front of him. He’d got a little stub of pencil from somewhere and started sketching on a napkin. He relaxed when he looked up at Sam, though, and Sam got a good look at the drawing taking shape. “Thought you were Bucky. He’ll give me an earful if he catches me drawing while we’re out.”

“Not looking to fill up your dance card?” Sam stuck his hand out. “Sam Wilson.”

The hand that gripped his has long, cool fingers and the firm strength of a bigger man. “Steve Rogers. Didn’t you see the line out the door to get a piece of this?” The point of his chin jutted defiantly, just looking for Sam to make something of it. God help them, the Army missed out on a wildcat with that one.

“Well, shoot,” Sam drawled, “there any way to get my name bumped to the top of the list?” He tracked his gaze up and down Rogers, making sure even someone as prickly as that couldn’t mistake his intention. To his surprise, Rogers ducked his head away, but not before Sam got a look at both a grin and a blush. Damn, but that’s nice.

The moment seemed to leave Rogers tongue-tied, jaw working like he was fishing for a line in response. Before he could, Sam nodded at the napkin he was still half hiding. “You’re that artist. Does the posters.” Sam recognized the style, which had shown up at home and overseas, pretty things framed by messages about rationing and doing their part. There had been one other, more cartoonish, done for the campaign against VD, which had snuck three visual dick jokes past the censors. Sam had really liked that one and always suspected the artist had to be queer.

This got Sam a grimace. “I did,” Rogers said, emphasizing the past tense.

“They were good. Not like some of the others.” That, of all things, got Rogers looking at him again and smiling.

“Yeah?”

“Got pretty ugly sometimes,” he said. The words, the nasty little caricatures, none of it sat right with Sam. “That’s war, I suppose.” He shrugged.

“I hated it,” Rogers said, oddly pleased to have something to be mad about. He tilted his head to the cluster of tables, where some of Gabe’s teammate were recounting some adventure. From there, it’s just noise and hand gestures, but they had Trip and the rest doubled up laughing. “Jim’s over there with Bucky, making sure his arm is the only bit that doesn’t make it back home, and people in the street still—” Rogers broke off with a huff. “Not that I did much better. My contribution to the war effort was reminding people to collect their scrap and buy bonds.”

Rogers’ mouth twisted sourly, like maybe he realized this was a funny way of keeping a fella interested. He fussed with smoothing his hair as he said, “Uh, so. What did you—Where—”

Sam should have known better than to be charmed. There he was, sitting in the corner of a bar with what had to be the most awkward boy he’d ever met, while behind him everyone else danced and drank and had a grand old time. There he was, trying not to grin and have Rogers take offense. There he was, wondering how much of a chance he had of taking Rogers home with him.

“I flew with the 99th out over Italy.”

Rogers perked up. “Where’s your class photo?” Must not have been his first time at the bar, then, because only the regulars insisted on calling them that.

Sam pointed to a spot to their right. In the photo, he had his hands in the pockets of a big leather bomber jacket, the fleece collar turned up to ward off the cold. Behind him, his baby had her nose pointed away from the camera, looking out toward the overcast sky. There was another of him with his actual class at Tuskegee, but he always showed off this one instead. He couldn’t make anyone else see his lady’s red tail in the black and white photograph, the stripes of it on her nose, but Sam knew. Sam remembered.

“Funny-looking fella, but the plane’s real pretty.” Sam could see the corner of his smirk.

“You talk big, but you’re just sore you never got the chance to go on a joyride with me.” It was supposed to come out as a joke, but Sam couldn’t help the wistful note that crept in. He’d been nursing the same whiskey that whole time, not near enough drink to make him weepy. He missed his wings, though.

By the time the lot of them started packing it in, the two of them had told a few of their own better stories. Sam liked the way Rogers laughed, even at himself, even if most of his stories were about getting the tar beat out of him in some alley. He always had a good reason to pick the fights, though, and Sam kind of liked that too. Along the way, Sam forgot to be blue for a little while.

Barnes came to fetch Rogers, flushed from dancing and just starting to wobble from drinking. “I’m putting Dum-Dum in a cab before he gets any worse. Come on, you can help me wrangle him before we head home.”

“Nah, sorry, Buck. I think I got a ride of my own.” He gave Sam a look out of the corner of his eye, sly but not all that uncertain.

Sam felt his eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, so that’s how it is?” Well. Looked like Sam might have a good night after all.


End file.
